


It's Beginning To Look A Bit Ineffable, I Suppose (Advent 2019)

by ineffablefool



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (more or less spelled out in different segments but he's always fat and lovely with me), Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Kissing, Light Angst, No Sex, No Smut, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pet Names, Romance, fat positivity, got some profanities because Crowley, just in a few of 'em and of course all of 'em still end Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 14,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21636442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablefool/pseuds/ineffablefool
Summary: Some as-yet-unknown number, between 1 and 31, of winter-holiday-themed ficlets, based ondrawlight@tumblr'sprompt list.  Everything will take place in ineffablefool's beloved Soft Zone(TM) which means it will be ridiculously romantic, completely asexual, and blatantly fat-positive.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 526
Kudos: 328
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	1. Mistletoe (December 1st)

**Author's Note:**

> (Oh gosh I have never done a daily challenge thing before. I'm not sure how it will go.)
> 
> Hello! Welcome (or welcome back) to the Soft Zone(TM)! It's still a day that ends in Y (weird how that keeps happening), so everything around here is still completely asexual and blatantly fat-positive. Now it's also a wacky experiment, because I'm going to see how many of [drawlight](https://drawlight.tumblr.com/post/189391982184/drawlight-drawlight-aziraphale-crowley-for)'s prompts I end up doing. I don't plan for them to be in any kind of continuity with each other, and they might or might not be canonverse (maybe I'll slip in something from my human AU?). It's chaos, I tells ya!
> 
> I'm writing for the TV characterization, but I've decided that my written Aziraphale's body is larger than Mr. Sheen's. Tumblr and AO3 user Squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, a few months after the world fails to end.) ___

____

* * *

__

Aziraphale looks up from his desk, startled by a sudden blink of demonic energy. He’s on alert for the first half-second, running down a mental list in no particular order of what might need protecting from the incoming Hell-spawned attack (books civilians life and limb Crowley Crowley _Crowley_ ). 

Then he relaxes. The energy is familiar, and sweet as dark honey to his ethereal senses. “What are you up to now, you old serpent?”

“Don’t see why I have to be up to anything.” The voice slinks back from the shop floor, followed shortly by a certain demon, who lounges in the office doorway as if the concept of posture offends him. “Fine hello that is, though, no ‘how are you, Crowley’, just straight to the accusations.”

Aziraphale closes his book with a put-upon sigh which he is completely feigning. “Good morning, Crowley. How are you?”

The handsome face forms a sharp grin which cannot properly be called a smile. “Terrible. It’s the Christmas season proper now. All that peace and goodwill and love makes everything smell funny.”

“Well.” Aziraphale stands from the desk, tugging his waistcoat back down over his belly — he is aware Crowley is following this motion carefully, but puts the knowledge aside for now — and strolls toward the doorway, which is still holding Crowley up with its usual patience. “We can find something to distract you, I’m sure. Could pop out for a nice spot of breakfast... it’s a bit early for wine, perhaps, but I still have three bottles of Barolo Riserva from that case you got me back in ‘48...”

He’s reached the door, now, and he really does expect Crowley to slide gracefully out of the way to allow him to pass. There certainly isn’t room for him to get through right now. Crowley may not have Aziraphale’s comfortable bulk, but he’s still taking up almost half the space, limbs and hips gone all sorts of complicated ways.

Crowley does move back, just a bit. Just at the last moment. Then, as Aziraphale steps into the doorway, Crowley moves again.

One thin hand cups Aziraphale’s cheek, gentle as moonlight, soft as the dawn. Aziraphale pauses, leaning into the unexpected touch, savoring it. Crowley bends down to place a single kiss at the corner of his mouth.

For the barest instant, as Crowley pulls away, he is smiling. Not a grin or a smirk, but something small and tender, and just a bit wobbly around the edges.

Then it’s gone. “Breakfast sounds good,” he says, strolling off again towards the front. “Last thing we need’s a hungry angel.”

Aziraphale doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t move. This is... something they still haven’t done much, since everything. Physical affection. Kissing. They both know where they stand, now, since that night in Crowley’s flat after the apocalypse, putting words to everything at last. Aziraphale had kissed Crowley then, long and sweet and aching. Crowley had held him tight.

They are both in love with each other, and they know it. They just haven’t... acted on it. 

Aziraphale’s cheek tingles where Crowley touched it. The corner of his mouth burns. 

“Well?” Crowley calls from somewhere out of view.

“Yes,” Aziraphale answers, “yes.” He gets moving again.

* * *

Breakfast is lovely, as always. Crowley barely eats, preferring to watch Aziraphale instead. ( _It’s not the food, it’s the joy_ , he’d said that night, as they sat on his painfully modern sofa, pressed close enough to share a heartbeat. _I could live off that alone, your joy. That face you make at the first bite of dessert. Keep me going for years, it can. It has._ )

They return to the shop, not touching, no hands held. The Closed sign remains in place as they enter. As Aziraphale takes off his coat. Maybe it’s his awareness of Crowley’s eyes on him (more memories of Crowley’s flat, his _You’re beautiful, angel, you can’t possibly need me to tell you this, but every inch of you is gorgeous_ ), or maybe it’s random caprice, but either way, he doesn’t put his shop jacket on. Leads the way to the back room in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

Just as he reaches the doorway, Crowley calls his name. He stops, turns around, and suddenly Crowley is kissing him again.

This time it’s not quite the corner of the mouth. Crowley’s lips are still firm and closed, but now they’re a bit more on target.

His hands rest lightly on Aziraphale’s sides, there where the flesh rolls outward, pressing against his clothing. The hands don’t press, though. Don’t caress, don’t gently squeeze Aziraphale’s plentiful softness. They only touch.

By the time Aziraphale has gathered his wits enough to realize that he could return the kiss, it’s over. Crowley raises an eyebrow, gesturing toward the back room. Aziraphale moves on to take his usual chair.

The pattern begins to emerge when there’s an insistent knocking at the front door, a visitor who won’t be dissuaded by the Closed sign. Aziraphale gets up to deal with the matter, and Crowley leaps up to follow him. Not to the front door, though: only to the back room doorway, where he halts Aziraphale with a hand on the shoulder, then brings his other hand to Aziraphale’s chin. 

Aziraphale closes his eyes as slender fingers touch his skin. This time, he kisses back. Feels a pleasurable sound spiral out of his own throat as Crowley’s lips part against his. It’s over much too soon.

“Gonna deal with that? Or should I?” He’s smirking again, the wretch, but the hand on Aziraphale’s chin brushes gently over his lips before Crowley steps back.

The would-be encroacher is dealt with easily — some tiresome human who insists the shop should be open now, as if Aziraphale has ever kept anything like regular hours. On the way back to Crowley, Aziraphale passes the door to his office. He looks up.

Of course. A little sprig of green with white berries, pinned up just above the doorway. Something which was definitely not there before this morning. Something which probably appeared at just about the same time as that tiny demonic miracle earlier.

He keeps walking, and there’s another hung in the back room doorway. Slouched beneath it is Crowley. His glasses are off now, and he is very, very lovely when he smiles like this.

Crowley doesn’t say anything ( _Since Eden_ , hoarse between kisses, between sobs). Aziraphale supposes he doesn’t need to either ( _With my whole heart, darling, with everything I have —_ ). It’s taken them six thousand years to get to this point, to all that was said that night, and the quiet glances they’ve mostly confined themselves to since. The mistletoe is a clever nudge to break them out of those confines a little bit. He wishes he’d thought of it.

Aziraphale walks to Crowley, into his arms, which are waiting for him now, opened wide. They slip around his waist, around and around, holding all of him like he is the most precious thing in Creation. His own arms embrace Crowley’s shoulders. 

Crowley leans down, and Aziraphale kisses him.

He kisses him with love, because he has loved him for so long, possibly longer than even he himself knows. There are memories going back through the centuries which have gained a rosier light, somehow, since his realization amidst books and rubble. Things which make so much more sense when viewed with a heart full of love.

He kisses him with devotion, because they have long been each other’s in every way but this. They will be each other’s this way, too, now. Aziraphale will stand by Crowley’s side for all the time they have left. Thousands of years, ideally. Millions. This is their side, as long as they’re alive to fight for it.

He kisses him with delight, because there is nothing but delight in this very human way of expressing emotion. He kisses him with sorrow for all the kisses they never shared. He kisses him with softness, with tenderness, because Crowley deserves these things. He kisses him with a promise of many more kisses to come.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley with all of himself, and is kissed back exactly the same way.

“Really, dear,” he says, once they’re more or less finished for now. “You didn’t need to bother with the mistletoe. I would happily kiss you for no reason at all.”

Crowley looks up and grins. “Huh. Now how did that get up there?”

Aziraphale raises one hand long enough to snap the mistletoe sprigs out of existence. “I’ve no idea,” he replies, and he smiles as Crowley squeezes him even closer. “But I think we can get on quite well without it.”

Crowley answers this with his lips, although not with words.


	2. Snow (December 2nd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a beautiful snowy day outside the bookshop. Crowley would like to sit and watch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warning notes:** the word "fat" is used, but never, ever negatively, because this is the Soft Zone(TM).
> 
> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

Crowley knew for sure he wasn’t responsible for the snow. Yes, it was ridiculously beautiful, downright picturesque, perfect fat crystals that sparkled in the afternoon sun like something out of a fairy tale. But it wasn’t his _fault_.

He was pretty sure it wasn’t Aziraphale’s doing, either. The angel didn’t even seem to have noticed. He was dealing with a customer, doing his very best to avoid selling a book, and probably hadn’t so much as glanced out a window in the last half-hour.

Crowley sprawled over the armrest of a chair he’d dragged out to the shop floor, cheek propped on one hand. Watching Aziraphale work. Or, more precisely, watching Aziraphale.

Ridiculously beautiful. Downright picturesque. Perfect, and fat, and when he finally shooed his customer off at last, he smiled at Crowley, sparkling as any crystal, as any gem.

Wasn’t a fairy tale, though. Better. Was real life.

“Close up for the day,” Crowley surprised himself by saying. “I’ll make cocoa. We can cuddle on the sofa, watch the snow fall.”

Aziraphale set his rescued book back on a shelf. “I’m reasonably certain that the sofa doesn’t face a window, darling.” Coming a little closer, trailing one plump hand along the shelf: “I think you may actually be in the only seat that does.”

“Huh. Guess we’ll have to share it, then.”

“How unfortunate.”

Aziraphale smiled as he pulled a miracle down. The chair shifted, suddenly wide enough for two. A blanket lay against the other armrest. Crowley frowned, though, which made Aziraphale lose the smile. “Something wrong?”

Crowley snapped his fingers. The chair was now big enough for one and a half, and that was pushing it when the one was Aziraphale. “Not anymore.”

Two steaming mugs had also appeared on an occasional table. One had six marshmallows on top — precisely six, no more and never less — while the other had a little something extra. The mingled smells of chocolate and whiskey filled the room.

Crowley held his arms out, glasses tucked away in some other place, mouth twisted down in an exaggerated pout.

“Really.” Aziraphale shook his head, though he was crossing most of the remaining distance between them. He stopped just out of reach. “Is this supposed to be some kind of temptation?”

“Yes?”

Aziraphale looked at him for a moment longer, then chuckled. “All right, you win. I’m successfully tempted.”

Crowley grinned. Hopped out of the chair long enough for Aziraphale to settle himself, then snuggled up against him, one arm curled around his wonderful belly. Aziraphale fussed with the blanket until it covered them both to his satisfaction.

Soft lips brushed Crowley’s temple. “This weather is rather lovely, isn’t it?”

“Not as much as you.”

The snow fell outside; lovely, yes, and soft, and cold. But inside was Aziraphale, and nothing was lovelier than him, than his smile as he squeezed Crowley close. Nothing was softer than him, than his beautiful fat corporation, every bit of it rounded just so. 

The snow won on cold, at least. Nothing cold about the most perfect angel in all of Heaven and Earth — really the opposite, Crowley thought. As he burrowed deeper against him, mumbling something very undemonic into his soft chest, it seemed like Aziraphale was very warm indeed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a really, terribly bad pun tucked in here which I am prouder of than I should be, especially since I didn't come up with it (I stole it from a long-ago [Arthur, King of Time and Space](http://arthurkingoftimeandspace.com/) which I cannot find now). (It's about the table.)
> 
> Oh! [Found the pun](http://arthurkingoftimeandspace.com/0557.htm), remembered it incorrectly, too late I'm committed.


	3. Nutcracker (December 3rd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a less ethereal-and-occult world, Crowley saves Aziraphale from a disturbing Christmas decoration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warning notes:** Crowley enjoys his F-bombs.
> 
> This is a one-off future snippet from the universe of my human AU, [If Not Now, When](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/49775579). It doesn't really spoil anything except that Crowley and Aziraphale end up together. Spoiler for literally everything I write, Crowley and Aziraphale end up together.
> 
> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_([Two humans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/49775579), a year or five from now.)_

* * *

Crowley paused midway through unwrapping the next parcel. “Um.”

“Hmm? Something wr — _Oh_ good Lord.” Aziraphale dropped the lights he was untangling and put a hand to his chest. “Oh, _do_ put it away, dearest.”

“The fuck is this thing?”

Crowley had it unwrapped fully now, another of the old Christmas decorations Aziraphale had been meaning to go through for ages. There were three large boxes of them in one of the spare rooms. So far he and Crowley had uncovered a veritable wealth of ancient bubble lights and tinsel and assorted gewgaws wrapped in brown paper.

Including, now, an absolutely hideous nutcracker.

“Lord, I thought I’d dreamed that monstrosity. I’m very disappointed to be learning otherwise.” Aziraphale looked at the ceiling, at the bits of detritus scattered around him on the floor; anywhere except the object in question. “That would be an antique nutcracker. A Nussknacker, technically. My grandmother had a number of them, most rather less terrifying than this one.”

“Aren’t they supposed to look like, like soldiers and things?”

“Generally.”

There was the wooden clank of the thing’s jaw working. “Not goddamn fucking terrifying death’s-heads?”

Aziraphale shook his head.

He actually had thought he’d dreamed it, although all the dreams featuring it had been nightmares. He could still remember being not six years old, so fascinated by his grandmother’s collection of antique German Nussknackers... and then came the first night he’d awoken in a screaming terror, mind still full of _this_...

The jaw clanked a few more times. Aziraphale shivered.

“Hey.” There was a sort of shuffling sound, a crinkling of paper, and then Crowley was knocking things aside so he could sit beside him on the floor. “I put it away, angel. Can even toss it, if you want. Find a rubbish bin somewhere far away.”

He laughed weakly. “It’s probably quite valuable, actually. We’d want to sell it, if anything.”

“Whatever you want, angel.” Crowley wrapped himself around Aziraphale, one arm going about his shoulders, the other circling his belly. “Childhood trauma’s a hell of a thing. And if my mum’d had one of those around, _I’d_ be scarred for life.”

Aziraphale shivered again, although he felt a bit better when Crowley held him even more tightly. “Honestly, I’m not pleased having it in the flat now. I... heavens, I _sleep_ right on the other side of that wall.”

“Technically I do. You’re on the far side of the bed.” Crowley leaned his head against Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I can get rid of it right now. Yeah? Take it away in the Bentley, you’ll never have to care about it again. Sound good?”

He thought for a few seconds. Let himself relax into Crowley’s embrace, into the gentle hand now rubbing the back of his neck. At last he nodded.

Crowley kissed him on the cheek. “Do that right now. Back in half an hour.”

“Love, I...” Aziraphale stopped, feeling his face grow warm. It was so foolish of him, and yet... “I — may have trouble sleeping tonight. Nightmares, you know... they really were quite horrible when I was a child, and..."

He trailed off. Crowley kissed him again, and not on the cheek this time.

“I’ll hold you extra tight tonight, pretty angel. And tomorrow night, if you need. Night after that.” One more soft kiss, which Aziraphale was more than glad to return. “Honestly, you don’t stop me, I might just do it every night forever.

“But,” he added, uncoiling himself from Aziraphale and standing up, “first: I’m saving you from this bloody nightmare-fuel nutcracker.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is not based off any specific thing. But I did a little research on the history of nutcrackers to try to find an angle for this ficlet, and I learned that A) they apparently originated in Germany and for a while were artisanally made by a few specific companies, which is neat; and B) some of the Google Image Search results I stumbled on were indeed not at all like the soldier-y nutcrackers we visualize today, and were... rather terrifying.


	4. Cranberry (December 4th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley and Aziraphale have dinner and talk about cranberries (and other things).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!
> 
> **Edit 2/29/2020:** I decided to record a podfic of this, because I felt like doing one and this was a nice short piece to read! You can find it [here](https://soundcloud.com/user-158147631/cranberry-dec-4-final-25).

_(An angel and a demon, a decade or more after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

There are little muffins in a basket. They’re cranberry. And orange, technically, but Crowley can’t really get past the part with the cranberries. Never been a fan. Funny-tasting things. If he’s going to bother to eat at all, he’s not going to eat _cranberries_.

Well, unless Aziraphale asks him to try a nibble. The angel is the ultimate tempter, and Crowley would eat an entire bucket of cranberries to see him smile.

Maybe not an entire bucket. Half a bucket. A lot of cranberries, is the point.

Aziraphale eats both the muffins, because they have come to this restaurant every Christmas season for the last ten or twelve years, and the menu is always the same. Cranberry-orange muffins, because why not ruin perfectly good bread products. A series of traditional entrees named after holiday-themed fictional characters, roast beef and crown pork and lamb, along with some sort of questionable vegetarian option which neither of them has ever attempted. Crowley’s never eaten his muffin, either. It always goes to Aziraphale.

“Crowley,” he says now, in a voice which sounds ready to be peevish if he doesn’t like the response, “why on _Earth_ are you giving me that sour look?”

Crowley straightens up the fraction of an iota. “Wasn’t you. Was just thinking — cranberries. Why cranberries? Why not something actually good instead?”

The beginnings of a frown slip away from Aziraphale’s round face. “Are you referring to our meal?” A brief sip of wine. “Or the fruit in general?”

“Either,” Crowley shrugs, “both.”

“I suspect the restaurant owners simply prefer to adhere to their own tradition at this point — they’ve never fixed the sauce on the turkey, either. Far too much nutmeg.”

Crowley doesn’t bother to stop an indulgent smile. He’s definitely heard about the nutmeg before.

“As for the existence of the things, well... it’s —”

“Ineffable,” Crowley says along with him.

Aziraphale laughs as Crowley makes a face. “Exactly, dear. Not ours to reason why.”

“No, no, see. The Plan, the one God actually has, the one They don’t show anyone for how everything’s _really_ going to end up, _that’s_ ineffable.” Crowley takes a drink of his own wine, not a sip but a swig, pointing at Aziraphale as he does so. “And —”

He lets his voice soften. Volume, but also tone. Lets himself show through a little. “And we’re ineffable, too. What we have.” He reaches for Aziraphale’s soft hand, already offered to him across the table. “Us. Ineffable as it gets, us.”

Aziraphale’s eyes crinkle at him.

“Big things are ineffable. _Important_ things are ineffable.” His mouth twitches when Aziraphale squeezes his hand. “But. But a bunch of, of stupid berry things? That’s not ineffability, angel. That’s a straight-up _mistake_.”

Aziraphale’s lips try to form an offended line, just for a second, before the smile is back again. Mouth and eyes and voice, as he answers, all too full of smiling, too much to keep up the pretense. “Really, dear. Can’t we go one Christmas without you blaspheming?”

“Nnnope,” Crowley replies. Pulls Aziraphale’s hand up and kisses it, the dimpled perfection of it. “Tradition by this point. Big fan of tradition, me.”

Aziraphale opens his mouth. He’s probably about to respond to that, to say something rather pointed about Crowley’s relationship with tradition. But their food arrives just then, as though by some kind of miracle, and the conversation is easily turned to turkey and lamb and still too much nutmeg.

Aziraphale enjoys his dinner, and the bits of Crowley’s dinner that Crowley doesn’t want, and they both enjoy the wine. And neither of them thinks any more about cranberries. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant here is a fictional London version of my own local [Quivey's Grove](https://www.quiveysgrove.com/). The main building, the Stone House, is an 1855 farmhouse, the various rooms on both floors turned into small cozy dining rooms. Every Christmas season they decorate it in a very traditional fashion (Google is being disappointing on the images, but [here](https://myemail.constantcontact.com/News-From-Quivey-s-Grove.html?soid=1100676836037&aid=gINnLhwCkvs) is a small example, beneath the drink specials), and serve a special menu of holiday-themed entrees and desserts. The muffins are always orange cranberry. Because why not ruin perfectly good bread products.


	5. Fire (December 5th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a fireplace in the back room. There is also a demon, and an angel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, some years after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

There is a fireplace in the back room.

The local planning authority would likely be rather surprised about this, given the documentation currently on file regarding the bookshop. But then, they’d have a number of surprises if they ever thought to investigate. For one thing, their blueprints show the shop as remarkably small.

There is a fireplace, which surprised Aziraphale the first time he saw it, another Christmastime some years ago. “Are you sure?” he’d asked, reaching out a hand, feeling it pressed to gentle lips. “I know you still...”

_Still have nightmares_ , he might have continued, _still wake up shuddering, swallowing screams. I’ll always be there to hold you, darling. To reassure you that I **am** there, and that I’m alive. The fire didn’t separate us. I rather think nothing can._

Crowley had nodded. Had pulled him close, arms around his waist. “Not gonna use it yet. But it’s there. Someday we can sit in front of it, and. And drink cocoa.” He’d rested his chin on Aziraphale’s padded shoulder. “Maybe, you know...”

“Snuggle?” Aziraphale had suggested, and Crowley made a disgusted sound. But his hands on Aziraphale’s back had rubbed gently, and when Aziraphale had kissed the side of his head, there’d been no further complaints.

Today, the fireplace is lit, somewhat. It holds a few logs of good solid oak, and they burn merrily enough, but the fire gives off no sound, no smell. No smoke. There’s only the rich warmth driving back winter’s chill. There’s only delicate light flickering over a narrow face.

That face turns to Aziraphale as he enters the room. Not much else is visible — just a lump on the sofa, wrapped tight in a blanket. Crimson hair pokes out around the face in messy tufts.

“Frozen to death,” the face informs him hollowly. “Too late for me. If only you’d gotten here sooner.”

Aziraphale, who actually closed up several hours ahead of schedule, is unimpressed. “If you’re too frozen to shift over, I suppose I’ll find somewhere else to sit. Maybe pop into my office, catch up on some accounting...”

The lump teeters upright before erupting into a mass of gangly limbs. Crowley holds the blanket open exactly long enough for Aziraphale to sit down beside him, then throws it around them both. “Warm,” he says, pulling himself closer. Slithering more or less on top of Aziraphale, while Aziraphale leans back against the arm of the sofa, making himself comfortable. The blanket is really not big enough to cover the both of them, but it does anyway.

Crowley ends up almost buried under the blanket. He lies pillowed on Aziraphale’s wide belly. One hand is tucked around Aziraphale, while the other drapes across the worn velvet of his waistcoat, fingers curved along the broad surface.

“Warm,” Crowley says again; “soft.” He burrows in a little deeper, and it doesn’t matter that his face is hidden. Aziraphale can hear the smile in his voice as it drags out, slow and quiet, all brashness gone; can feel it in his body as it loosens, tension draining away, thin limbs restful.

Crowley drowses against Aziraphale’s body, all its round spreading softness gentle against his sharp edges. He is not even a face, now. He’s a blanketed lump with hair, puddled atop Aziraphale like he has no bones at all. Aziraphale whispers something to him and gets the same words mumbled back in response.

For a little while Aziraphale watches the flames, the silent dancing light, duller now as the logs turn slowly into embers. Then he closes his eyes. The room will keep its warmth, because he wills it. The fire will go safely to ash. Aziraphale and Crowley will lie here, as long as they both like, snuggled in the blanket, in each other.

Crowley has already fallen asleep, here before the fire; and after a few minutes, Aziraphale does the same.


	6. Bells (December 6th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The bell above the door of the bookshop can tell you quite a bit if you know what to listen for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

The bell above Aziraphale’s door jingled.

It was a tentative sort of sound, a “not quite sure what I’m about” kind of ring, which meant it was a walk-in. Some would-be customer, perhaps here based on a search from that Internet, perhaps just ducking in on a whim. They would probably get confused by the shop layout and leave. Even if they did manage to find something they thought they wanted to buy, Aziraphale would convince them that the purchase was not worth the trouble.

Unless they happened to want one of the Jeffrey Archers, of course. Aziraphale didn’t suppose he needed those anymore.

At any rate, he didn’t bother getting up yet. Remained at his desk, reading and taking the occasional sip of tea.

There were a few noises from the floor; movement, the occasional cough. At last there was one last soft thud of a book being put back in probably the wrong place, and another jingle. The intruder was gone.

A while later, the bell sounded again. This time it was surer, more welcoming. Footsteps headed toward one of the extremely uncomfortable-looking armchairs scattered around in locations not at all convenient to the bookcases. There was a noisy sigh, as of someone dropping down with full knowledge that the chair was actually quite comfortable indeed. A zipper opened. Pages flipped, but not from any of the books on Aziraphale’s shelves.

Aziraphale nodded, smiling to himself. One of the students who came here to study, or sometimes nap. Very respectful sort. They didn’t bother his books at all, and sometimes the literature students discussed their reading with him, which could be very pleasant.

He continued reading. The visitor faded into the background, and when they left, he barely noticed.

His tea was not quite gone when the bell rang one more time.

Jangling. Loud, and brash, the door shoved open heedlessly, hinges protesting in vain. No cautious entrance, this; it was an act of utter confidence that the newcomer was exactly where he belonged.

A voice to match rang out across the floor, but Aziraphale was already on his feet. “Angel! Where’re you off to, then?”

He met the latest visitor somewhere in between the histories written by left-handed authors and the reference books published in Prague. All fire and steel, this one, a shout of crimson hair and sharp edges, nothing soft or gentle except the golden eyes which smiled into Aziraphale’s. Except the hands which cupped Aziraphale’s face, thin fingers caressing, dancing over his skin. Except the lips which curved tenderly as the newcomer leaned down, as Aziraphale tilted his head up, as they kissed so sweetly that Aziraphale swayed against him, and was caught by those hands, held close and tight.

No, there was nothing soft or gentle about the demon Crowley, at least to hear him tell it.

“Missed you,” he murmured, nuzzling against Aziraphale’s cheek. “Been, what, a whole two hours? Three? Bored silly, I was. How’ve you been?”

“Oh, splendid, really,” Aziraphale replied, stifling a laugh as kisses tickled along his jaw. “Finally getting in a bit of light reading, in between...”

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

“...all my... other reading, I suppose.”

“Very productive.” Crowley bent to kiss him again, but was checked by the bell above the door.

Sharp and firm, this ring. Purposeful. Someone who knew what they wanted, knew they could get it here, and wasn’t prepared to leave without either their prize or a rather lot of shouting.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale groaned. “A _collector_.”

“I got this one, angel.” Crowley pecked him on the nose, then sauntered off toward the front. “And after this I take you to the Ritz, huh? Celebrate it being, uh, Thursday.”

“It’s Friday.”

“Whatever.”

Crowley ambled out of sight. There was a whisper of demonic power, a brief pause, and a choked little scream. The sound of fleeing footsteps was followed by a terrified clang. Then there was silence.

“So,” Crowley said from somewhere up front. “The Ritz?”

The bell over the door sounded as they left, one ring for the both of them as they stepped out together, hand-in-hand. It was a cozy sound. An “off we go” sort of jingle, a “home again soon” little chime. The door locked itself behind them as they left.

When they returned it would open for them, the bell above singing “welcome back”, calling “now we’re home”. And two supernatural entities would head up to bed, snuggled in warm, the bell silent and still until morning. 


	7. Silent Night (December 7th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is… not _quite_ singing festive Christmas songs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

At first, Aziraphale was pleased. Crowley didn’t have a traditional sort of singing voice, perhaps, but it was still a lovely sound, his long throat giving way to song. He’d been humming snatches of melody all day as they’d worked reorganizing the shop (Aziraphale called it “reorganizing”, and Crowley called it “mucking up so no one will ever find anything again”, and if one were being honest with oneself then one would have to admit that they were probably the same thing). Some of it sounded almost like Christmas music, which was so delightful that Aziraphale didn’t dare mention it, in case he made Crowley self-conscious enough to stop.

But once the humming and random sung syllables started resolving into words, he realized that he had been in error.

“ _...Silent night..._ ”

On the other side of the shelf, quite hidden from view, Aziraphale smiled.

“ _... blasphemous night..._ ”

The smile dropped.

“ _...people quake at the sight..._ ”

The voice moved, just a bit away and then closer as Crowley came around the shelf to pick up more books. “ _...monsters rising from deep R’lyeh... people screaming_ —”

“Crowley!”

Yellow eyes blinked at him above a lazy smile. “Yes, angel?”

“What on _Earth_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Putting away the, uh...” He looked at his armload. “Dansk biografisk Lexikon. Why?”

Aziraphale waited.

Crowley’s smile widened into a grin. “Something the matter?”

“Dear. Darling. Sweet love of my life.”

“‘Mnot sweet,” Crowley muttered into the stack of books, cheeks gone fetchingly pink.

Aziraphale stepped around his own pile, drawing near to Crowley. “My precious, treasured boy...”

Crowley’s shoulders hunched up, although when Aziraphale pressed against his side, winding an arm around his slender waist, he relaxed into the touch. “Mmmnuh?”

“‘People _screaming_ ’?”

For a moment, Crowley seemed to be trying to both juggle the books and return Aziraphale’s embrace. Then he freed a hand long enough to snap a bit of power up. His arms were empty for the briefest instant before he squirmed them around Aziraphale’s belly, humming happily as he did. “Dunno what you’re talking about. You hear screaming? I don’t hear screaming. Should get that looked at, scream-hearing. Could be serious.”

Aziraphale sighed, although there wasn’t much force behind it. “Just... please don’t sing that horrible song anymore, lovely. Thank you.”

“Promise,” Crowley replied before placing a tremulous kiss on his cheek. “No more’f that one.”

Aziraphale left his own kiss against the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “Such a thoughtful dear.”

Crowley went that delicate pink shade again, mumbled something, then slunk away. There was the thud of books being very emphatically shelved.

They worked in relative silence for a while, until Crowley started humming again. Another Christmas standard. A bit newer, more like the sort of bebop Crowley enjoyed so much, but still very pleasant. His warm voice filled the shop with little wordless spoken sounds, and Aziraphale smiled again, occasionally ticking a hand along in time as he moved from one task to another.

The sounds, after a few moments, flowed into lyrics.

“ _It’s beginning to look a lot like fish-men..._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Per [Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dansk_Biografisk_Leksikon), the Dansk biografisk Lexikon (first edition) was a Danish biographical dictionary published in nineteen volumes from 1887 through 1905. And now you know.
> 
> Crowley, it seems, has gotten his hands on A Very Scary Solstice, which was a 2003 album of various holiday songs, all rewritten by the H. P. Lovecraft Historical Society to be themed after the life and works of Mr Lovecraft. Y’know Cthulhu, the tentacle-face monster? This was the guy who came up with him.
> 
> You can listen to Silent Night, Blasphemous Night [on YouTube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d0zHQqp8LPs). For It’s Beginning To Look A Lot Like Fish-Men (possibly the best song on the album!), there is [YouTube again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LTJ_eQbBtls), or you can actually download a free mp3 at [the HPLHS listing page](https://store.hplhs.org/collections/filk/products/a-very-scary-solstice). This album, its follow-up An Even Scarier Solstice, and frankly everything the HPLHS produces is high-quality and good clean eldritch fun. Although Aziraphale possibly wouldn’t approve.


	8. Choir (December 8th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley waits outside. (But not for long.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

Crowley waits outside. It’s cold, not windy at least but _bitter_ , the kind of cold that eases into your bones and then surprises you with the lovely home it’s made for itself there. Oh, hello. Like what I’ve done with the place? Your heart is now a heartsicle. Your patellas are now ice.

But he’s fine with waiting, iced patellas or no. He can hear the choir out here, muffled but comprehensible through the stone walls, the tall windows. They’re on the one about the herald angels singing, now. Funny that they don’t realize the only angel in the place is listening while _they_ do the singing.

Aziraphale loves all the stuff about Christmas, the decorations and the food and the music. Crowley loves Aziraphale, which is why he’s waiting outside a church he can’t enter.

The humans are still at it, though, when a soft presence drifts up to him.

“You’re simply _broadcasting_ , Crowley.”

“Uhh —” Crowley jumps, but he knows that gentle voice. “Angel? You’re supposed to be listening to your choir thing.”

“And you are supposed to be back at the bookshop, keeping warm. Yet here you are.”

Crowley doesn’t shiver. Much. “Wanted to share it with you. Even if I can’t, can’t...”

He gestures to the church. The humans are singing the one with the drum, now.

“Ah. Which is why you’re out here in the dark, frozen half to death, sending out enough love that I can feel it over an entire church full of joyous humans.”

Crowley’s heart stutters. Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum. “Sorry.”

Aziraphale lays a plump hand against Crowley’s cheek, and when Crowley turns helplessly toward him, he lifts on his toes to deliver one sweet and lingering kiss. “I do hope you aren’t apologizing for that last part.”

“Mngh,” Crowley replies. Aziraphale is pressed tightly against him now, wide arms around his shoulders, and even through his winter coat he’s enticingly soft, deliciously warm. “Not. Not the last part, no.”

_Then he smiled at me_ , the humans sing, and Aziraphale does. Round face beaming, round like all the rest of him, so beautiful that Crowley is glad he’s still got his sunglasses on to protect him. The only light out here had been from the church windows, but now there’s a bloody sun.

He shivers. It really is cold out here.

“Poor dear. Let’s go home, shall we? Make an early night of it, perhaps pop up to bed...”

Crowley is already shaking his head. “You wanted to listen to your choir. Not gonna ask you to leave.”

A little _hmph_. “And I don’t suppose I can convince you to go on ahead.”

Crowley’s answer is to stretch his arms out, around Aziraphale, pulling him very close. Squeezing him, all the gorgeous breadth of him, enough to produce a tiny angelic squeak.

“Nnnope,” he clarifies.

Aziraphale laughs, quietly, a little breathlessly. “All right, I won’t try. Just... let go for a moment, will you, darling?”

Crowley does, even though now his empty arms are colder than ever.

Aziraphale begins unbuttoning his coat. It’s ancient and ridiculous, of course, but it does fit very well on his perfect corporation, which means it’s enormous. Crowley assumes the angel isn’t going to try to make him wear it. He’d be lost in it. Might not be found till spring.

Once the coat is open, though, Aziraphale only holds out his arms. “Come here, then. Let’s at least get you warmed up a bit.”

He barely gets a chance to finish the sentence. Crowley slips his own arms around Aziraphale again, under the winter coat and — this is the part he’s especially pleased about — under the fussy topcoat too. He gathers up all the angel he can get his hands on, spreading belly and wide love handles and the soft rolling flesh of his back beneath his clothes. There’s so much of him, and all of him is perfect, and all of him is Crowley’s.

And warm. Deliciously, soothingly warm.

Aziraphale holds him tightly, pulling him into the front of his coat. Drawing him up against his own body. Crowley sinks into him with a long, quiet sigh.

The humans are still at it. _Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains_. But when the sweet voice of an angel sounds in his ears, it’s not from on high at all. It’s from down around his shoulder somewhere, and it doesn’t sing, but only rumbles quietly. “Is that better?”

“Mmmm.” Crowley squirms a little, evicting the cold from his bones. “You can still hear your music?”

“Quite well. It’s even lovelier shared, I think.”

“Mmmmm,” Crowley says again.

They listen to the one about the manger, and the one where there’s merry gentlemen, and at least a couple involving bells. Aziraphale holds him the entire time. Keeps him close, snuggled and pillowed and wrapped up tight.

Aziraphale loves all the stuff about Christmas, the decorations and the food and the music. He also loves Crowley, which is why they’re both standing outside a church together. Why, when the final song ends, he’s already tilting his head up, as if some subtle shift in Crowley’s embrace has told him a kiss is coming. Or maybe it’s something he senses like he does love. Crowley doesn’t figure it matters much.

They share a kiss in the silent night, and are gone before the first human has emerged from the church.


	9. Chestnuts (December 9th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a less ethereal-and-occult world, Aziraphale buys and then realizes he has no idea how to prepare chestnuts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a one-off future snippet from the universe of my human AU, [If Not Now, When](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/49775579). It doesn't really spoil anything except that Crowley and Aziraphale end up together. Spoiler for literally everything I write, Crowley and Aziraphale end up together.
> 
> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_([Two humans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/49775579), a year or five from now.)_

* * *

“Erm. Well, no. I rather thought they might come with instructions.”

Crowley poked at one of the shiny objects now strewn across the table. It wobbled helpfully.

“Doesn’t look like it. Bag of chestnuts, contents: about a billion chestnuts.” He looked at the table. “And a bag.”

Aziraphale paused in his flutterings around the kitchen. “Do we cook them in the bag, do you think...? Oh, bother.”

“Hmmm. C’mere and help me think.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, now, a little, which was good. He’d gotten a bit flustered when he’d learned that Crowley had no idea how to prepare his impulse purchase of one (1) large bag of chestnuts, either.

He stepped across the kitchen, right next to where Crowley sat at the table. When Crowley leaned his head to the side, it sank gently into Aziraphale’s belly.

“Now,” Crowley said, letting his eyes drift closed as a soft hand stroked his hair. “You know there’s this little thing called the Internet, right? All kinds of information, some of it even not about cats.”

“Yes, but you remember what happened with the souffle recipe...”

“There was a difficulty in translation! Americans with their tablespoons. Makes no sense.” Crowley turned his head and kissed Aziraphale’s waistcoated belly, then leaned forward and began shoveling the nuts back into their bag. “No, no, won’t make that mistake again. We’ll find a proper British recipe. For, uh, roasting them, I guess. That’s how the song goes, right? ‘Chestnuts roasting on an open fire’ and all?”

Aziraphale frowned. “We don’t have a fireplace.”

“Cooker, maybe? Look, all this hokey old-fashioned stuff is your thing. I’m, y’know, the sleek and modern type.”

“You’re the irritating type,” Aziraphale said; but his voice was gentle, and he’d wandered a hand back into Crowley’s hair again. “Perhaps we boil them?”

Crowley resisted the urge to lean into Aziraphale’s touch, because he’d probably just end up pillowed against his pretty belly again, and while that was an extremely nice place to be, it wouldn’t get this whole chestnut thing dealt with. He pulled out his phone instead.

“Let’s see what the old Googs have to say... ‘how to cook chestnuts’. Wikihow... the Spruce... The Boulder Gourmet, _why_ would I want to eat _boulders_...”

“I think they mean a city in America, dear.”

“Why does my phone think I’m American?!”

Aziraphale had put the rest of the groceries away by now. He pulled another chair out to sit beside Crowley.

“Okay. Some BBC food blog. Getting somewhere now.” He showed the screen to Aziraphale. “See? All roasty.”

“Oh, they look scrummy.”

“‘Scrummy’, he says. As if that’s even a word people use.” Crowley slung an arm around Aziraphale’s waist. “As if you’re not the most ridiculous creature to ever walk the earth.”

Aziraphale wiggled a bit closer to him. “You horrid man. Do we need an open fire, then?”

“Just the oven.”

“Oh. I suppose one of us would need to go turn it on, then.”

Crowley flopped sideways into Aziraphale. Kept scrolling his phone even as his other arm wound tighter, hand pressed against Aziraphale’s far side, spilling over with soft angel. “Spose so.”

“But not just yet." 

“Nope. Gotta read these instructions first.”

Lips grazed against his temple.

“Just. You know. Don’t want a repeat of the souffle thing.”

Aziraphale hummed agreement against Crowley’s cheek.

“Reading very carefully.” Crowley squeezed the side of Aziraphale’s belly. “Might take a while, to be honest.”

“Oh, no doubt. Do take your time.”

It took several more minutes to properly absorb a couple hundred words of instruction, especially since he obviously had to start over again every time he got distracted. For continuity, like. But then Aziraphale’s stomach rumbled, which gave Crowley the focus he needed to finish the difficult task.

“Right!” He jumped up, tossing his phone onto the table. “I’ve got this. I am now one with the chestnuts, angel. A master of roastery.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Of roastery.”

“Or whatever. Look, you want your scrumminess or not?”

“Well, when you put it that way...”

“Zactly. Watch me work my magic.”

Oven heated. Chestnuts attacked with a knife so they wouldn’t explode, then set to roast; angel distracted so he wouldn’t peek curiously into the oven every five minutes. 

When they were ready to peel at last, even Crowley was curious. 

Aziraphale got the first taste, though, because of course he did. As far as Crowley was concerned, that was half the point of trying any new recipe. Everything hinged on that moment when Aziraphale took his first bite, and either beamed, humming his enjoyment of the results, or... not.

“So?”

Aziraphale popped the first one into his mouth. Bit down, looking maybe a bit doubtful; but then his expression cleared, eyes closing in delight, that happy sound rising up from his throat.

Crowley grinned as he peeled one for himself. “Guess that’s a ‘scrummy’, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never eaten a chestnut.
> 
> There are, at this very moment, fresh-from-the-co-op chestnuts in my refrigerator. We have never bought them before. Personal platonic Crowley bought them on a whim the other day. But we haven't used them yet, so I have no experience to draw on for this fic.
> 
> So close, so far.
> 
> I did find [this page](https://www.bbcgoodfood.com/howto/guide/how-roast-chestnuts) on the BBC Good Food website, though.


	10. Gold & Silver (December 10th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've just saved each other from Heaven and from Hell, which gives Crowley time for a bit of metaphor-laden pining.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, the evening after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

It’s late. Too late, maybe, the moment passed, the chance lost.

It’s late, and not just by the clock.

They walk back towards the shop under a silvery moon, now, and Crowley is out of tricks. “Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?” it’d been, first; then “another bottle of wine?” and “shouldn’t we stay for dessert?” and “lovely night, isn’t it, fancy a walk?”

He’s stretched their day together into evening, and their evening together as far as he can. It’s about time to be apart again. Not for long, he — he hopes not for long. Not hundreds and hundreds of years like it once was. Not decades, weeks. Not days or hours alone in his flat, only his shivering plants for company. His throat aches. How can he shout at his plants when his throat already aches? 

He looks to his right, and the ache only worsens. 

Aziraphale walks beside him, slowly, because Crowley is setting the pace, and Crowley wants this walk to last forever. The angel follows at his side — inches away, sometimes their hands even brush, it’s _agonizing_ — and he’s beautiful, soft and smiling. 

He must notice Crowley staring, because he looks up at him, smiling even wider. The moon paints his hair silver.

“Thank you for dinner, Crowley. And the walk.” His round face practically glows with happiness. “You were absolutely right. It’s a beautiful evening.”

They’re not far from the shop. Crowley can see it, the windows warm and inviting, spilling golden light into the dark. The kind of light that says _here is home, here is forever_ , but not for him. Got those sterile fluorescents back at his place.

“Crowley —”

Aziraphale stops a few paces from the door. He turns to face Crowley, still smiling. Gold in his hair now, from the lamps within. The silver has moved to his voice. It shines in his brief laugh, in the words he speaks almost breathlessly.

“Come with me.”

“Uh?”

“Home, I mean, I —” Aziraphale laughs again, and the sound peals away into the night like a string of bells. “Oh, bother. Come _home_ with me. There’s no reason not to, anymore, is there?”

Crowley’s mouth is hanging open slightly, he realizes. Seems too much work to do anything about.

“I should have said something earlier. I’m the only one of us who can sense —” Aziraphale reaches out, soft hands seeking, finding.

Taking both of Crowley’s.

“You’ve been putting out waves of it all day, you know.”

Crowley makes some vague noises.

“You always do, more or less, but — but rather a lot today.” His eyes dart to the ground for a moment, and his smile turns inward. “Frankly, it’s been almost overwhelming at times.”

Crowley’s hands are still in Aziraphale’s. 

“Darling —” and this is new, Aziraphale is calling him _darling_ , that single golden word has never fallen from his lips like this before, and Crowley feels something in him start to fill with light. “I don’t think there’s any point in hiding anymore. I think they all know where we stand, now.”

Crowley looks at him, and his aching throat grinds out words which he’s somehow able to speak. “Where do we, uh, stand, then?”

“Together.”

The hands squeeze his, and he thinks of a sentence which begins “I’m the only one of us who can sense”. He wonders what Aziraphale might be talking about, that he can sense but Crowley can’t.

The light in him flickers brighter. Pools in him like pale moonlight.

“Aziraphale, I —”

Blue eyes crinkle in the round face. Plump hands no longer squeeze, but caress.

“It’s your home, too, Crowley. Any home of mine is yours. Come in with me. Stay.”

Crowley swallows past the fading ache in his throat. “I will. Yes.”

Aziraphale _beams_ at that, the sight shattering Crowley’s heart for joy. Shards of something precious, silver and gold and platinum too, maybe, spinning off into his darkness like shining coins. Lighting it all up.

“Come on, then, love,” he says, pulling Crowley along by his hands. “Time we were both safe inside.”

The door opens, spreading light on the ground, letting the two of them in. Together, now, no need to go back to the flat. No hours and days and years without Aziraphale. Not anymore.

Silver tears gather in Crowley’s eyes as soft arms wind around him. Golden light wells up within his heart. Aziraphale whispers sweetly to him, voice tender and sparkling and sure, and Crowley doesn’t whisper back, because he can’t. But he feels it. And Aziraphale knows that he does.

The door closes. It’s late. Time for all good little angels to be home, snug and warm; all good little demons, too, if there is such a thing. They’re both inside either way, though. They’re both _home_. And that, Crowley thinks, might be the most precious thing of all.


	11. Pine (December 11th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a less ethereal-and-occult world, Crowley tries to grow a plant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_([Two humans](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20936816/chapters/49775579), a year or five from now.)_

* * *

“What — oh, would you look at —” Crowley growled. “They covered them in _glitter_ , angel!”

Aziraphale looked up from the display of painfully festive oven mitts. “Hmm?”

“You don’t cover plants in glitter! It’s, it’s undignified! Plus the glue covers the stomata!”

“Oh, how lovely.” Aziraphale was beside him, now, round hand tucking itself into his elbow. “Very festive little things. Would you like to buy one?”

Crowley tried to glare, but having so much pretty angel on his arm took some of the oomph out of it. “I’m not gonna _subsidize_ this nonsense. Take perfectly good Norfolk Pines and put glitter on ‘em. What’s next? Paint kittens on holly? Do up poinsettias in little coats?”

“Would they have little mittens, too?”

“W —” Then he saw the tiny smirk, the sparkle in the eye. “Don’t you start.”

He pecked a kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek, just to make it clear that he wasn’t going to let that sort of thing go unchallenged.

_“Anyway_. I’m not going to financially reward the shop for their, their, plant abuse.”

He picked up the saddest, most sparkle-drenched one. 

“Gonna rescue one, though. His name is Edward.”

* * *

The name might’ve given the Norfolk Pine ideas (“It’s a reference to some books, Aziraphale, it... ugh, never mind”), or maybe it was just the coating of spray glue. Either way, he was the mopiest damn plant in Crowley’s collection. He cleaned him off the best he could, moved him to a pot that didn’t have cartoon snowmen all over it, and hit him with just a dash of pH-appropriate fertilizer.

Edward did nothing.

He did nothing, but he did it in the mopiest, poutiest, most irritating way possible. He didn’t die, but he didn’t grow, either. He wilted and drooped no matter how Crowley watered him. And he didn’t drop needles, he dropped _glitter_. Even after Crowley would’ve sworn the very last speck had been rinsed off, two days later he’d be finding it in his hair.

Or in Aziraphale’s hair. Which let Crowley make jokes about the halo showing again, and was therefore adorable, but was still irritating in principle.

Once or twice, Crowley almost gave up and threw the damned thing out. He didn’t want to let him win, though. That was probably just what Edward wanted. Release him to the wild so he could rain glitter on an unsuspecting populace.

Somewhere around February, Crowley realized that Edward finally, at long last, had the tiniest nub of new growth.

* * *

“So how is Edward doing today?”

He didn’t look up from his misting. “Rotten. Little bastard’ll only grow in one direction no matter how I rotate the damn pot.”

Aziraphale wound his arms around Crowley’s middle, snuggling softly up against his back. “I think he looks rather jaunty. And at least you got all the glitter off, finally.”

“In theory, yeah.” Crowley gave Edward a warning glare. “But then, I’ve thought that before, _haven’t I_.”

* * *

By fall, Edward had grown maybe four inches, and had definitely probably almost certainly finally stopped dropping glitter. Maybe.

“But you’re still an annoying bastard,” Crowley informed him.

“They’ll never grow right if you’re _cruel_ to them, beloved.”

“Edward knows what he did, angel. He knows what he did.”

* * *

“There.” Aziraphale stepped back, beaming. “Now we’re all ready for Christmas.”

Crowley stared in dismay. “Aziraphale. Angel. That’s the saddest goddamn thing I’ve ever seen.”

A Norfolk Pine wasn’t technically a pine, and Edward was a pitiful-looking wreck of a plant, and they already _had_ a Christmas tree, a proper big one, which they’d spent hours decorating until it met with Aziraphale’s very particular standards. They did not need a sad, wilty, crooked, half-bald baby extra Christmas tree for a handful of small ornaments to droop very sadly from.

Crowley had explained all this to Aziraphale. Yet, here they were.

“Now, darling. Edward has done very well from humble beginnings, I’d say. And he’s rather part of the family at this point.”

“Oh, adopted him when I wasn’t looking, then?”

He pulled Aziraphale into his arms, though, kissing him lightly on the nose. “Very festive. And maybe the positive attention’ll be good for him.”

Aziraphale beamed up at him, round body pressed close, wide arms winding around his neck. Crowley leaned his head down as Aziraphale tilted his up, eyes going soft, sweet lips parting gently...

“Oh!” Aziraphale blinked. Pulled an arm from around Crowley’s neck and drew a delicate finger down his cheek. Looked at the finger and chuckled.

“Would you look at that! You had glitter on your face.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's probably about five years too late for the naming gag to be even close to relevant, but I don't care. I bought a sparkly Norfolk Pine from Walmart years ago, named it Edward, then we somehow wound up with a couple more not long thereafter which I named Emmett and Alice. And I still think it was _hilarious_.
> 
> They all died pretty quick. I blame the glitter.


	12. Eggnog (December 14th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale drinks some eggnog. By accident, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

“Oi, Aziraphale, that’s not —”

Aziraphale picked up his mug from the table by the sofa, taking a sip without looking up from his book. A moment later, he was sputtering, staring at the mug in his hand with a vague sense of betrayal.

Ceramic and adorned with wings, right enough, but it wasn’t actually his mug. This one was black and contained...

“Eggnog. Good Lord, why does anyone ever drink eggnog?”

Aziraphale smacked his lips together as Crowley pulled the mug from his hand. “What rotgut did you spike this with, anyway?”

“Added a liberal splash of very nice brandy. And for the record, I think it tastes, hmm...”

He leaned over and kissed Aziraphale, just softly enough to make his beverage-based atrocity almost forgivable. 

“...really good, actually.”

“Hmph,” Aziraphale said, without really meaning it.

Crowley handed him his own angel-wing mug — cocoa and marshmallows, as was only right and proper — then wriggled around until his knees were slung over the arm of the sofa. His head found a familiar perch in Aziraphale’s lap, cheek resting against the curve of his belly. “Don’t pout, angel. Might have to kiss you again, and meanwhile your cocoa’ll get cold.”

“I would say it would be in character, your ruining another beverage, except I’d rather be honest about it. Eggnog comes ruined to start with.”

He had already put his book down, though. His free hand ran through the flaming hair, mussing it and then smoothing it out again. Even when he took a sip of cocoa — _actually_ of cocoa this time, no brandy-soaked nonsense, even if it had gone a bit cold by now — he kept up the gentle rhythm.

Crowley made a little sound in his throat. “I thought you liked all that Christmas-y stuff. Anything that’s festive and cheery and —” he made the sound again — “and annoying like that.”

“Not,” Aziraphale said, “eggnog.”

He drew his fingers through Crowley’s hair one more time, pulling out that content little sound, along with a wide smile on the handsome face. When he went to take another sip of cocoa, there were rather more marshmallows in the mug than before.

The grin on Crowley’s face grew even wider. “Little apology,” he said, yellow eyes laughing. “All warmed up again, too, exactly the way you like it. Am I forgiven my noggy crimes?”

“You know, I rather think you are.” Aziraphale set his mug down again. “Shall we kiss and make up?”

Crowley slithered just upright enough to immediately drape himself over Aziraphale again. “Shall. Yep.”

Aziraphale pulled him close, feeling a gentle hand settle against his cheek. At this point he really wasn’t sure there was anything for them to make up for at all, but he hardly saw the need to let that stop them. He kissed Crowley, and shivered delightedly as Crowley kissed him back, obviously as interested as he was in ensuring there was no bad blood between them.

By the time they’d both satisfied themselves on this point, Aziraphale’s cocoa was cold again.


	13. Ice Storm (December 16th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale expects to have the shop to himself after an overnight storm, but there is an unexpected intruder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read! (Gosh it... doesn't show up in the text for today's AT ALL, but trust me, Aziraphale is still beautifully fat.)

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

The storm rolled through sometime in the pre-dawn hours, spattering rain and ice against the windows of the bookshop. Aziraphale ignored it, mostly, aside from when the wind gusted hard enough to disturb his reading. Soho would be a sculpture come morning, every surface limned with gleaming ice. The roads would be treacherous, the pavement all but impassable, everyone tucked away in their homes as much as they could be. Why, he’d be lucky to get a single customer all day.

Aziraphale smiled to himself at the thought. Although those unsafe conditions were something of a problem... there. One moderate-sized miracle, and anyone in the neighborhood who did have to brave the outdoors would reach their destination unharmed. All the better if that destination was somewhere other than here.

He opened at the usual time, since there didn't seem to be much risk of anyone making use of it. 

For a few hours he puttered around, better arranging displays to make their contents seem less appealing, reshelving a few books which had been carelessly misplaced. Or, in the case of one set of encyclopedias, misplaced very carefully indeed — unless it was a coincidence that the volumes had been reordered so that the first seven were H, I, A, N, G, E, and L.

When the bell over the door sounded, he looked up from the Melville he’d gotten distracted by, frowning in irritation that someone might actually want to _shop_ for something. That reaction was immediately overtaken by another, once he realized what his ethereal senses were telling him.

The room went suddenly icy. A bone-jangling wind blew past him, bringing with it the sense of approaching infernal power, of a creature more powerful, more dangerous, and more vexatious than any of the surrounding humans could possibly realize...

A dark figure flowed around the corner, and almost before Aziraphale knew it, he was in its frozen clutches.

“Hey, angel.” Crowley squeezed him even tighter, nuzzling against his neck. “Lunch?”

“Good Lord, did you jump into a snowdrift before you came in?!” Aziraphale wriggled away, but only so he could take Crowley’s hands in his own. “Gloves, dear. Humans invented them for a reason.”

Crowley didn’t seem impressed by the idea. He only grinned, golden eyes flashing, as Aziraphale began rubbing some warmth back into his poor thin fingers. “Show up chilly enough, I get my very own angel of mercy tending to me. Pretty good deal all told.”

“Please tell me you didn’t drive the Bentley in this mess. Show up _discorporated_ enough and I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.”

“Eh, she handled fine.” His grin widened. “Funny thing, though, once I hit Soho proper, roads seemed to miraculously clear up...”

Aziraphale raised his chin. “I don’t know what you’re implying.”

Crowley brought their joined hands up to his lips. “Implying nothing.” He pressed another kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. “Outright accusing plenty, though.”

“That’s really not any better.”

“Maybe not. Make it up to you with lunch?”

Aziraphale frowned into the middle distance.

“...lunch and dessert after?”

Aziraphale quirked one thoughtful eyebrow.

“...aaand maybe I’ll actually put on some gloves this time.”

“Splendid!” Aziraphale beamed and pecked him on the cheek. “Thank you for seeing reason, lovely.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Reason nothing. I just didn’t want you pouting all day.”

He smiled gently, though; and when they stepped out into the frozen street, his gloved hand held Aziraphale’s all the way to the restaurant.


	14. Warmth (December 22nd)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is a bit chilly, but he's a resourceful fellow, so he'll probably think of a way to fix that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read! For today's chapter, though, there's one extra detail, and that's that Aziraphale has large round lovely arms like in [this fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21594439).

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

Aziraphale is a creature of habit. Which is an understatement, because who even _wears_ the same coat for more than a hundred years, the blessed thing is so far out of fashion that it’s practically wrapped around to _hipster cool_ , except Crowley is pretty sure that Aziraphale’s individual sense of style is never going to be considered “cool”.

Still, he changes a few things up every few decades, maybe new trousers or different neckwear, even if it’s always in his personal tartan. And some years ago, he acquired a few cardigans. He doesn’t wear them often, and only around the shop and the flat upstairs, but they’re tucked away in a drawer right now. Three of them, in the same soft warm sort of colors that he always favors.

It’s cold in the shop today, and Crowley hasn’t turned up the heat, obviously because he doesn’t want another scolding about conserving the planet’s natural resources from Aziraphale. He also hasn’t just miracled himself or the back room warmer, because... well, he just hasn’t. That’s all. Leaves one option, then, and that’s popping upstairs to raid Aziraphale’s wardrobe while the angel’s dealing with a customer. Can’t be helped.

So here he is, in the bedroom of the flat, the one Aziraphale still doesn’t use to sleep in. Aziraphale doesn’t sleep. He has started using it to sit up and read in, though, because Crowley sleeps, and Crowley likes very much to have a soft, pretty angel to cuddle up next to when he does. He’d thought for a very long time that he would enjoy this, and it definitely turns out that he was correct. Nice to finally test the hypothesis. Keep testing as often as possible, because it’s not proper science unless it’s repeatable.

There’s no soft, pretty angel to cuddle up next to now, because Aziraphale is downstairs trying to convince some human that no, she does not want that first-edition Bronte. There’s just Crowley, cold and with no possible solution to that problem other than to pull one of Aziraphale’s cardigans from the drawer and put it on.

He doesn’t even need to unbutton it. Just slips it over his head and lets his arms find the sleeves. It’s cozy and warm, and smells faintly of sunbeams and book dust and sweet ethereal essence.

It’s also too big, of course. The thing about having such a soft, pretty angel to cuddle is that there’s a lot of him. Never too much — the two concepts of “Aziraphale” and “too much” are incapable of coexisting in Crowley’s head, like “Hell” and “love”, like “tartan” and “stylish” — but exactly the right amount of a lot. And his clothes fit his perfectly-sized corporation, therefore on Crowley they’re too big. No wide, rolling arms to fill out the sleeves here. No round belly for the front to stretch across. It’s honestly a bit ridiculous.

Crowley wraps the extra folds of fabric around himself and heads back downstairs. He’s much less cold now. Time to snuggle up on the back room sofa and wait for Aziraphale to shoo off his customer.

When he hears approaching footsteps, he’s actually halfway to being asleep. The chuckle from the doorway rouses him.

“I do believe that’s mine, love.”

“‘S mine now. You weren’t using it.” Crowley burrows into it even deeper, letting a satisfied smile bloom on his face. “Me just a poor little demon, so cold and alone back here, I had to do something.”

Aziraphale crosses the room to join him on the sofa. “Well, I’m glad to hear you’ve solved your problem.” His eyes are twinkling, smirk playing around his delicate lips as he laces his hands across his belly. “I just closed up, and I’d been thinking we might spend the evening together, but if you’re quite comfortable here then I can always catch up on inventory...”

Crowley has already slithered next to him, pulling at one broad arm. “Nope. Still cold. Still poor lonely demon.”

“Oh dear. Let’s see what we can do about that.”

Aziraphale raises his arms, all the lovely flesh shifting into rolls that Crowley can’t really see beneath the shop jacket, but that’s all right. He knows they’re there. And when he drapes himself against Aziraphale’s belly, those arms settle around him heavy and soft. Warm. Crowley pulls himself completely into Aziraphale’s lap, curled up tightly, warm soft belly beneath him, warm soft arms around him.

He mumbles something which doesn’t come anywhere near coherent.

“Yes, dear," Aziraphale says. He wiggles a little, as though getting comfortable. “Are you warm enough now?”

“Warm,” Crowley agrees. “Soft. Sleep now.”

“Will I get my sweater back later?”

“Mmmnh. Maybe.”

“Well, it is just a _little_ large on you, beloved.”

Crowley nuzzles his cheek into Aziraphale’s shoulder, into his upper arm. His angel is very, very soft there. Very, very pretty. “‘S you-size. Makes it perfect.”

A chuckle ripples through the gorgeous body beneath him, and the wide arms squeeze tighter for a moment. “Perhaps I’ll make a gift of it, hmm? After all, I wouldn’t want you getting cold again.”

“Just never let go, then. Simple.”

“Simple,” Aziraphale echoes. “Well. I suppose I don’t _have_ to open tomorrow morning.”

Crowley nods against his pillow.

“You don’t want to move upstairs?”

Crowley shakes his head.

“All right. We’ll just sit here for a bit.”

A plump hand snaps against Crowley’s back. There is a rustling sound behind him, almost exactly like what it might sound like if a book were to appear in midair, possibly at the eye level of a sitting angel, the pages opening to the correct spot via some kind of miracle.

Crowley grins. “‘Night, angel.”

“Good night, darling.”

Aziraphale may be a creature of habit, but Crowley does appreciate the handful of new habits he’s picked up since the world didn’t end. Like dropping new words in their conversations, “darling” and “dear” and “love”. Like letting Crowley hold him at night, together in the bed upstairs, reading his endless books while Crowley sleeps soundly at last. Like holding Crowley, close and tender against his round body, in his round arms.

Like letting Crowley love him, and loving Crowley in return.

There’s no more chill in the room now. He’s wrapped in Aziraphale’s sweater, held in Aziraphale’s embrace. There’s nothing left now but warmth, and softness, and love.

Crowley closes his eyes. Crowley sleeps.


	15. Love (December 25th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley tells Aziraphale he loves him. But obviously he's lying, right? Sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

For the first half-second, Aziraphale thought his human heart would burst against his ribs. For Crowley to be looking at him like that, yellow eyes bare and beautiful, and to have finally said those words — words Aziraphale had kept locked within himself, afraid to let them be heard, so used to the fear that he still lived in its shadow long after it was gone —

His heart sang, breath swelling in his lungs, mouth already opening to say the words back again —

Then the moment passed. 

“ _Crowley_ ,” he said, those three words trapped again beneath a wave of hurt. “Of all the things to _lie_ about.”

He drew back, and oh, how he was regretting, now, how closely they were sitting. Such a gradual thing it had been, this movement toward each other over weeks, over months. One day he had foregone his own armchair to sit on the sofa with Crowley. The next, Crowley had perhaps leaned a bit closer, smiled a bit longer. Tiny instances of reaching out, accepted and echoed and held close to his heart. 

He had thought that Crowley might be able to love him, someday, now that they were free. To hear that he already did had been the most joyous thing he had ever experienced.

But it was a lie, of course. Could not be anything but a lie.

Crowley was still playing to it now, it seemed. His beautiful eyes went wide, yellows filling in toward the edges, and his mouth went slack. “Y — angel, what do you —”

“Do you know, I loved to hear you call me that?” Aziraphale stood, tugging his waistcoat down over the curve of his belly. “I thought... oh, I suppose I thought it was _affectionate_. Not at first, of course, I thought you were trying to be rude at first, not even using my name. But after a while...”

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley said again, his voice so aching that it went through Aziraphale’s chest like shards of bone, like rusted hooks. Catching and snaring and ripping at the tender heart of him.

He’d been pacing, but now he stopped, whirling to face Crowley directly. “Don’t call me that anymore. You’ve lost the right to give me a, a _pet name_. I rather think you’ve lost your invitation to my home, as well.”

Crowley stood now too. “An — _Aziraphale_. I swear I’m not lying. I love you, by all the stars I love you —”

“I can sense love, you idiot!”

Crowley stared at him. Well, fair, after that outburst. Aziraphale smoothed down the front of his jacket and adjusted his bow tie before speaking again.

“I know you don’t love me just as I know you aren’t wearing your sunglasses. I can sense love, Crowley, but I sense none from you.” He looked away for a moment. “I never have.”

“Oh,” Crowley said, and — Aziraphale looked back at him, and yes, of all the cruel things, he was _grinning_. Actually starting to laugh. “Hell’s sake, can’t believe I forgot that I —”

He leapt forward, almost as if he might grab Aziraphale by the arms, although he didn’t. “You can’t sense it because I covered it up,” he laughed. “Put, put it under a bushel, like. I just — it was so long ago, I just got used to it —”

“Stop talking nonsense,” Aziraphale said, although it didn’t come out at all like he intended. Foolish to hope, of course, it was just that he wanted so badly to believe... “You can’t hide love from an angel.”

“Hid it from everyone for six thousand years,” Crowley grinned, and Aziraphale felt the hooks in his heart sink deeper.

“Gonna, gonna unhide it now, okay?” His eyes flashed sudden concern. “You ready?”

“Just finish this little game of yours and then get out of my home.”

Crowley nodded. “If you still want thirty seconds from now, then you’ll never see me again.”

He closed his eyes. Opened them again. Smiled.

It crashed into Aziraphale like a bus.

“Oh,” he managed, before collapsing into Crowley’s arms.

* * *

The sofa was rather miraculously closer to the center of the room than it usually was, which probably explained why the two of them had ended up there rather than on the floor. As it was, Crowley had apparently staggered back under the unexpected weight, landing rather awkwardly with Aziraphale in his lap.

He was talking quietly when Aziraphale regained his senses. Stroking a thin hand through his hair all the while. “Shh, angel, it’s okay, I’ve got you... hold you as long as you need, forever if you want, wouldn’t mind a bit...” His voice roughened. “Got a lot of catching up to do, and all...”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said against his shoulder.

“Hah. Warned you. Yeah? Said you needed to be ready.”

“Crowley, you love me.”

The hand in his hair removed itself, a second arm joining the one already around his broad waist. “Told you so.”

“No, but... Crowley, you _love_ me.”

“Lots, yeah.”

Aziraphale raised his head to look into Crowley’s stunning eyes. “I’ve never sensed this much love in my _life_ , darling — it shouldn’t be possible —”

Crowley grinned, wide and joyful. His arms around Aziraphale squeezed tighter.

“What?”

“You called me ‘darling’.”

Aziraphale’s arms were loosely thrown around Crowley’s shoulders, where they must have fetched up during his little spell. He wound them about the slender neck very deliberately; and oh, what a delight, seeing what that did to Crowley’s eyes. They were very wide now. Very wide, with not a bit of white to be seen.

“Oh, darling,” he murmured. “Dear — _dearest_ —”

Crowley pulled in a ragged breath.

“My heart, my jewel, my beloved...”

He pressed a kiss against one thin cheek, and unlocked the words at last. 

“I love you, too.”


	16. Champagne (December 27th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch at the Ritz on the day after the world doesn't end. There is somewhat more than usual to celebrate, and not just the world-not-ending part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, the evening after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

The bottle is almost empty, now. The lights have been turned low.

Aziraphale looks across the table at the center of his world, the linchpin of everything he’s nearly lost over the last few days. The one constant that he can always come home to, even if he’s only recently realized just where “home” is.

It isn’t a bookshop, that’s for certain.

The handsome face catches the light on the keen edge of jaw, on a fine-wrought cheekbone. Crowley is a quick, sharp creature, dark and dangerous, too — yet so bright, when no one is looking. So gentle, when he dares.

Aziraphale is looking now, and Crowley’s smile is bright and gentle.

He twirls the stem of his champagne flute in his slender hand. “Staring, Aziraphale.” He breathes the next word out slowly, letting the syllables curl around his tongue like smoke. “ _Angel_.”

“Am I?”

“Should get a pair of these if you want to keep doing it.” He taps the frame of his dark glasses, the latest in a long series which have hidden his eyes for hundreds of years. “No one knows where you’re looking, then. How long you’ve been doing it.”

The flute rolls back and forth in his clever fingers.

“What you’re thinking about.”

Aziraphale ponders his own champagne flute. He spins it briefly between his own round fingers, although the motion doesn’t please him like it apparently does Crowley. He sips at what little is left before putting it down again.

“I suppose, then,” he murmurs, raising his eyes to where Crowley’s should be, “that you know what I’m thinking about?”

Crowley’s voice is much rougher when he speaks again. “I’ve got a guess.”

Aziraphale does not have sharp edges to cut the light on, or dark glasses to mask his thoughts. He’s all softness and comfort, and a clear, frank gaze which does not try to hide its intent. Not anymore.

“I must be rather at a disadvantage, then. Since it seems I can’t possibly know where _you_ are looking...”

Crowley touches his hand to his glasses again. It’s as though he’s about to remove them, although he doesn’t yet. “You, Aziraphale. Of course it’s you.”

“Or how long you’ve been doing it...”

“Six thousand years.” That sandpaper voice again. Crowley swallows. “And a bit.”

Aziraphale drains his glass.

“Or what you’re thinking about.”

Now Crowley removes the sunglasses, and it’s as if they’ve rehearsed this. The words leave Aziraphale’s throat just as the dark lenses come down. As the lush golden eyes, stricken and shimmering and locked on him, are revealed. Not one instant of silence goes by before Crowley’s answer scrapes out.

“You. And six thousand years.”

It’s strange, how unsurprised Aziraphale is by this, and still he rocks back in his chair. His heart stumbles into his ribs.

His answer is soft. “I see.”

The sunglasses are on the table, black and cold silver against the white tablecloth. The champagne flute is back in Crowley’s hands. It twirls restlessly as the golden eyes don’t blink but only watch.

Aziraphale meets the eyes. “Six thousand years,” he says, plucking away the flute, “is somewhere to start, I suppose.”

Crowley’s hands are empty, so Aziraphale fills them with his own.

“Though there’s also the next six thousand to think about.”

The thin hands grip tightly at his plump ones.

“And the six thousand after that, and... Well. I could go on.” He smiles, lets it spread warm and tender over his face. “But do I need to?”

“N-no.” The hands relax, start to caress. “I’m getting the general idea.”

“Oh, good.”

Crowley’s lovely mouth tilts upward in a smile. “Suppose we’d best get started. On all those — those thousands of years.”

A perfect bubble of happiness rises up in Aziraphale’s heart. “We may as well finish the champagne first, my dearest. I believe there’s just enough for one last toast.”

Crowley’s hands are shaking as he tips the last of the champagne into their glasses. Only a bit, though.

“To —” Crowley holds his up, snake eyes still holding Aziraphale’s, although his gaze trembles more than his hands. “To the next six thousand. Together.”

“Together,” Aziraphale whispers.

When they leave at last, the bottle and flutes are empty. Aziraphale thinks there will be rather more in their future, though. He thinks that future looks very, very full.


	17. Glitter (December 29th)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has decorated the shop up with lots of tinsel, because tinsel is pretty. Crowley thinks certain other things (or one thing) (possibly a person more than a thing) is prettier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, a few months after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

Crowley made it through the bookshop door without dropping anything, which wasn’t, technically, a minor miracle, but felt like one. Just a few feet to the register counter, which was the one blessed surface in the place he could halfway expect to not be covered in books, and... there. Everything set down safely. His coffee, Aziraphale’s hot chocolate, the bag from the coffee shop, the box he’d picked up on a whim from the Parisian chocolatier which had just opened only a few blocks from his flat.

Really all of it was whim-based, of course. All picked up on the basis of _won’t his eyes light up when he sees this_ , of _won’t this put a smile on that beautiful face_.

When he had a chance to actually notice his surroundings, he groaned. Sure, the shop had been an overdecorated mess during the Christmas season, with pine boughs and ribbons and festive bits and bobs everywhere. He hadn’t been able to take a step without knocking into a symbol of holiday cheer. But that had been last week, for Somebody’s sake. It was over, should have been been put mercifully aside for another eleven months or so.

And it had. But now the whole bloody place was shiny instead.

“Aziraphale!” He eyed the decor with suspicion, although it at least didn’t seem to be trying anything yet. “You responsible for this eyesore, or did a glitter factory explode?!”

“Oh, _do_ stop yelling, I’m right here,” Aziraphale replied, emerging from the nearest aisle and making Crowley jump. 

“So not the explosion.” Crowley smoothed down his jacket, scowling at the amused twinkle in Aziraphale’s eye. “All your doing?”

Aziraphale looked around them for a moment. “I still felt like celebrating. You don’t like it?”

Crowley edged just a little closer to him, looking around too. Everything was just so... so... sparkly. 

Not as much as Aziraphale’s eyes, of course. But close.

Garlands of tinsel were wound around the support columns, around the railings of the balcony above. They draped from shelves; from tables and sculptures; even the armchairs had some twining up the legs. Silver and gold glittered everywhere. Made the place seem almost not a dark, meandering maze.

“Guess creating a health hazard is one way to drive down business,” he shrugged. He let the motion sent his arms flailing a bit. His right arm brushed Aziraphale’s back. Just enough to imagine the soft padded hills and dips of him, under tweed jacket and waistcoat and shirt. “Proper bastardy move, that.”

Aziraphale frowned for about a half-second before it melted back into a smile, round face turned up to Crowley from not very far at all. “Don’t be silly, my dear fellow. I got rid of the lead tinsel ages ago. Still plenty of the old tin and aluminum left, although I did pick up some of the modern sort back in 1974 or so...”

“Speaking of picking things up.” Crowley grabbed the hot chocolate from the counter. “Went by the coffee shop, got you this.”

Aziraphale took it from him with both hands. His fingers slid over Crowley’s in the instant before Crowley let go, soft and plump. “Oh, thank you. Is this —” He took a sip, smiling as the flavor hit his tongue. “With proper whipped cream, too! You’re so kind, Crowley.”

“Not me. Driven by selfishness and spite, I am.” He nudged the paper bag closer. “Got you a couple pastries while I was there, too. Case you got peckish.”

Aziraphale shifted position, as if moving to a more comfortable stance, which brought him closer still. Enough that now Crowley thought he could feel the warmth of his round body. “Hmm. It is very selfish of you, now that you mention it, bringing me hot chocolate and pastries. Truly a wicked act.”

The decor really was extremely fascinating. Very glittery. Lots of... of glit.

Crowley nudged the chocolates toward Aziraphale, in between still definitely being mesmerized by the tinsel. “Brought you these too.”

His hand very subtly eased around Aziraphale’s back again. Lot of distance to cover, there being so much of him, but Crowley had long arms.

“Why, they look absolutely delicious.” Aziraphale set his drink back down. “I look forward to enjoying them.”

Crowley grinned crookedly. “Good. Maybe keep you from fancying up the shop for five minutes.”

His hand had been angling to fill itself with the soft bulge of Aziraphale’s far side as they stood beside each other. It lost its chance when Aziraphale turned to face him.

Heavy arms draped themselves around Crowley’s neck. The most perfect corporation in existence snuggled up to him, filling up his arms with adorable bastard.

“You’re simply no fun at all, dear heart.” Aziraphale’s voice and eyes laughed, softening the words even before he’d gotten to the end of the sentence. “I think it makes the shop look cheery. Bright and eager for the new year.”

Crowley drew him in tighter. “Eager.”

“I must admit I am.” Face tilting up, now, pudgy fingers weaving into Crowley’s hair. “I’m looking rather forward to it, actually. The very first year begun on our side.”

“Ours,” Crowley noted. “First.” He leaned down to nuzzle their faces together, mumbling the rest against one round cheek. “Not last.”

“Oh, I don’t intend to ever have one of those, beloved.”

Crowley’s whisper of “ _Angel_ ” was swallowed up by their kiss. His chest lit up in golden spangles, in glorious shards of light, just like all the other times. Like he’d been filled up with tinsel. Like a glitter factory had exploded.

When they stopped for breath they didn’t really need, the shop was still an overdecorated mess, the garlands sparkling everywhere.

Though Crowley didn’t think they sparkled half so much as his angel’s eyes.


	18. Resolution (December 30)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rude stranger tries to give Aziraphale "helpful" advice concerning New Year's resolutions. It doesn't go well for her. Then there is softness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter-specific warning notes:** fatphobic microaggressions and mention of dieting. But also spiteful punishment of the microaggressor, because I love spite. 
> 
> Chapter-level reminders, since these can be read as standalones: 1) everything I write is ace, no sex or smut or nothin'. 2) I'm writing for the TV characterization, but my written Aziraphale is visibly fat. Tumblr and AO3 user squeegeelicious has created [this absolutely gorgeous artwork](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for) for my human AU, which lets you know what to visualize as you read!

_(An angel and a demon, sometime after the world fails to end.)_

* * *

“Hmm? Why, no, I can’t say as I’d given it any thought.”

They were waiting for their beverages to be made at the trendy little cafe Crowley liked to visit, even though it was always terribly busy — granted, it sold an excellent pain au chocolat, but that was only because the owners procured them from the French bakery next door. The coffee was serviceable, but not worth the long lines and the crowded spaces.

This cafe did brew some kind of triple-strength monstrosity, though, and Crowley always delighted in purchasing as large a cup of it as the barista was willing to sell him.

Here they were, then, order placed for a peppermint mocha and a cup of sludge, waiting in the little knot of other customers near the pick-up counter. Aziraphale had his pain au chocolat already in hand on a small plate. Once their drinks were made, Crowley’s name called out for both (no one could ever pronounce “Aziraphale”), they would find a table, almost certainly miraculously, and enjoy each other’s company for a while.

Then they would probably go back to the bookshop and enjoy each other’s company over a bottle of wine or three. Honestly, it was shaping up to be a very pleasant evening.

Still, for now they were waiting near the counter, Crowley’s arm wound around Aziraphale’s waist, Aziraphale holding his pain au chocolat. It was probably very clever of Crowley to be on his phone with his other hand, because it made him appear busy enough that none of the other patrons had tried to strike up a conversation with him. It almost made Aziraphale wish for one of those contraptions himself.

The woman to his right had, for some reason, started talking to him about New Year’s resolutions. Asking him if he would be making any.

She laughed now, in response to his confusion. “Oh, well, but now’s the time of year for that sort of thing, isn’t it? For self-improvement and all.”

“Is it," Aziraphale said. He thought about giving Crowley a subtle nudge, in the hopes of a rescue, but decided against it. Surely he could make small talk with one chatty stranger.

“My Sarah’s Marcus is quitting smoking, you know.” The woman nodded as though this were deep insider knowledge. “And Therese is giving up gluten, which, good for her, I say, being focused on her health like that.”

“Rather.” Aziraphale cast a quick look around. Crowley was still lost in his phone, sadly. “Well, the, ah, human drive for personal betterment truly is astounding. If you’ll —”

The woman beamed. “Exactly!” Then, leaning forward: “And if you don’t mind me saying so, you might be interested in the plan she’s using — I understand it’s very effective.”

Aziraphale blinked, briefly distracted by the way Crowley’s hand on his side tightened. “Er, effective for...?”

“Oh, well.” She gestured vaguely toward him. “You know.”

Tension thrummed in Crowley’s arm where it draped across his back. Probably one of those little bleep-bloop games he played, going poorly. Aziraphale smiled politely. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, a nice New Year’s resolution is a good time to start a change for the better, isn’t it? Better health, better choices...” This said with another gesture, toward his pain au chocolat, as if that cleared things up. “Better, uh...”

Aziraphale furrowed his brows, utterly lost.

“Your young man,” she exclaimed brightly. “I’m sure he’d be very pleased.”

Crowley put his phone away.

“Madam, I confess that I really don’t —”

“Angel.” Crowley’s voice thrummed like his arm had a moment ago, but with infinite tenderness on top. “Let me handle this, hmm?”

His free hand caressed Aziraphale’s cheek, slipping down to his chin. It was no trouble at all to be coaxed into a kiss that way. Very pleasant to return it, Crowley’s lips soft on his, as Crowley’s hand settled on the front of his waistcoat.

Crowley broke the kiss, pecking another against the rounded edge of his jaw, before glaring around him at the woman. “His young man thinks you should mind your own business.”

“Excuse —”

“Could be _your_ resolution for next year, like. Keeping your helpful little opinions to yourself.”

Aziraphale gaped a bit. The woman had been rather pushy in conversating with him, yes, but this did seem something of an overreaction...

Crowley’s voice went deadly quiet. “His young man thinks any time you feel yourself wanting to _share_ your helpful little opinions, you can have a think about all the ways it doesn’t actually help _anyone_.”

He raised his hand in a rapid snap, dropping it immediately back into place afterwards.

The woman frowned. “I just thought some friendly advice —”

She stopped as if she’d been interrupted, although Crowley hadn’t said anything this time. Certainly Aziraphale hadn’t, either. He was still feeling about ten paces behind. What was this conversation about, again? Resolutions and wheat?

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh, I... I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t...” She blinked, eyes going damp. “I didn’t realize. I’m sorry.”

She blundered away, off to the edge of the crowd. Crowley bared his teeth in a fearsome grin after her.

“Good heavens,” Aziraphale murmured as Crowley steered them closer to the pickup counter. “What was that all about?”

“She was trying to say you should go on a diet, angel.”

He laughed briefly, surprised into it by such an absurd idea. “I certainly don’t know why I’d want to do that.”

“Me neither.” Crowley squeezed his side with one hand, rubbed the front of his waistcoat with the other. “Now, resolving to maybe sell a book every fortnight or so...”

Aziraphale might have swatted at him, but a barista called his name in a bored-sounding voice, and he slithered away with barely enough time to throw a smug grin back over his shoulder.

They found a very nice table with only a slight expenditure of ethereal power. Crowley gulped his overcaffeinated horror, mouth twitching back in a fond smile as Aziraphale savored his pain au chocolat.

“Good?”

“Delightful,” Aziraphale replied, patting his mouth with a napkin. “How is your monstrosity?”

Crowley took another swig. “Bracing.” His smile turned sharp. “Feel like I could glue a coin to every street in London, now.”

“Oh, _let’s_ not,” Aziraphale said. “Perhaps you should make one of those resolutions of your own. Slightly less petty mayhem, hmm?”

“Naaah. Resolutions are for important stuff. Personal betterment, like you said. Could stop with the coins today if you really wanted me to.”

Aziraphale sipped his mocha. “No, no. The devilish behavior I know is better than that which I don’t, and all.”

“I’d make a good one if I bothered, though. Something like... hmm.” Crowley settled his chin in his hands. “Could resolve to kiss an angel every day.”

“An interesting definition of ‘personal betterment’, that.”

He set one of his hands on the table, though, palm up. Crowley covered it without hesitation.

“Loads better with an angel around.” The hand on his squeezed gently. “Be willing to kiss him twice a day, if that’s what it took to keep him.”

Aziraphale returned the gentle pressure. “I am not sure that it _requires_ anything of the sort.”

Crowley brought their hands to his mouth and pressed soft lips against Aziraphale’s knuckles.

“...but I would not be against such a resolution, if you cared to make one.”

“How bout I just resolve to kiss an angel exactly as many times as he wants?”

“Ah, my dear,” Aziraphale replied, stroking his hand against Crowley’s cheek. “I fear that would be a very difficult resolution to keep.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! If you were thinking of leaving a comment, please know that I treasure every single one, whether it's a single emoticon, a copy-pasted line, a keysmash, an entire novel of feelings, or whatever. (Even after a story's been online for a while and already has comments! I like to know that my babies are still loved!) I've literally cried a few times reading some of the lovely things people have said in comments, and they really are fuel for my soft little heart -- but never, ever required, so please don't feel pressured. Just know that if you're ever questioning whether it would bother or annoy me for you to comment or otherwise reach out, _no oh goodness no it will never bother me it will absolutely do the opposite of that_.
> 
> If you want to say hi on Tumblr, I'm [ineffablefool](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com) there, too. The last sentence of the previous paragraph applies here as well. 
> 
> I would never actively request art from anyone I wasn't paying, but if you, the human reading this, were to decide it was worth your time to create fanart based on any of my stories, I would be incredibly honored ([and would love to enshrine it forever on my Tumblr](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/tagged/ineffablefool-gets-fanart-from-lovely-people))! I have only one requirement: please don't draw Aziraphale any thinner than the size I headcanon (I need both my soft cuddly daydreams, and my positive fat representation). Here are some examples of what that sort of minimum body size/shape might look like: ([beautiful fanart created for me by Squeegeelicious](https://ineffablefool.tumblr.com/post/189282541139/squeegeelicious-a-walk-to-the-ritz-for)) ([speremint 1](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186342035100/i-did-this-instead-of-my-hw-ya-girl-is-gonna)) ([speremint 2 from her Reversed Omens AU](https://speremint.tumblr.com/post/186574829700/finally-finally-done-making-these-refs-my)) ([dotstronaut](https://dotstronaut.tumblr.com/post/186740069618/no-really-i-dont-think-you-all-understand-how)) Otherwise, the characters can look however you like!
> 
> (If you say something nice about one of my stories and I recognize you as an artist who does commissions, there is a chance I will ask to give you an amount of money of your choosing to draw your favorite bit of the story you complimented. Just a little warning.) 
> 
> I hope you're having a fantastic day.


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